I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. Maybe just to get it out of my head before I go to sleep and it starts looping again. My folks, they’re in their fifties now. Used to be, their house was always full, especially Sundays. My sister and her kids, my brother and his lot, us too. Elbow to elbow around that big oak table my dad built (he always said it was for generations of grandkids, all proud like). Food everywhere – gravy boats, roast beef, some kind of weird Jell-O salad my aunt insisted on bringing. Laughter, yelling, kids running wild. Noise. Good noise, you know? Like life was happening. Now it’s just them. Every night. Silent. I went over last Tuesday because Mom called, said she had extra lasagna (a lie, she just wanted company, I think). I got there and the TV was off. The radio was off. Just the clinking of forks on plates. My dad, he just stared at his food. My mom, she kept trying to catch my eye, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. It was like watching a movie with the sound turned all the way down. Eerie. A real gut punch, even though I knew it was coming. I asked them, “So, anything new?” Just to break the quiet. My dad grunted. My mom just kinda sighed and said, “No, not really, honey. Just… same old, same old.” And that was it. That was the whole conversation over dinner. I mean, I love them. I do. But they’ve always been about the noise, the hustle, the family around them. It’s what they built, what they lived for. All those years working double shifts, saving every penny for that house, that table. For us. It’s not like I don’t feel it too. My own kids are teenagers now, always holed up in their rooms with their headphones on, or out with friends. My husband works late most nights. Sometimes it’s just me and a microwave meal, scrolling through my phone. But somehow, seeing them, all alone like that, it hit different. Like seeing a future you don’t want to admit is real. (Is that selfish? Probably.) I tried to get them to talk about it, you know? "It must be quiet without everyone here." My mom just looked away. My dad finally said, "We’re used to it, I suppose." But he didn't sound used to it. He sounded defeated. Like he’d lost something he didn’t even realize he was still holding onto until it was gone. And I just sat there, eating my cold lasagna, wishing I had something profound to say. But all I could think about was the dishes piling up in my own sink at home and the mountain of laundry I still hadn’t folded. Practical stuff. Always the practical stuff. I guess this is just… how it is now. The kids grow up, they move on, they make their own noise. And the silence settles in. Like dust. You can try to clean it, but it just keeps coming back. And I don’t know what to do with it. Not for them, not for myself. Just… quiet. A lot of quiet.